They should make a toy line,
Heads of State, that features
orange eggheads sporting
yellow troll tufts and a range
of offending mannerisms.
Bubble T (w20/mule team).
Smoking T (from a gun).
Sneezy T (aerosol or spray).
Lying T (very diluted lye).
Dancing T (VillageMaggots enc).
Electric T (with chair or prod).
Dictator T (adheres to skin).
Very Stable T (wait and see).
He’s been stewing many hours
on Barack’s brutal takedown.
So, tonight, he’s got two hours
to run a Bad Joe shakedown.
He’ll have explicit videos
of Hunter with crack whores.
A masterpiece of cut and paste.
Is that Diana Dors?
He’ll run with Rudy’s flaccid tips,
so recently exposed,
as intel fed through Russian lips.
He didn’t sleep. He dozed.
As time creeps by, we’ll sit and die,
waiting for his eruption.
By hour two, it’s clear
this is a trial on his corruption.
Expect the sweats, strange alphabets,
and syntax taxed unfairly,
a lot of pointing, deft disjointing.
Insane rating: Barely.
(Note from the author’s son: I found this title-only draft and felt compelled to publish it – with the date he last edited it.)
The golden lips of stimulation
have yet to caress my station
so put off the long vacation
snuggle up to isolation
beating heart media nation
awaits the next great sensation
in the voices of vexation
anarchy becomes temptation
nah nah….
more to come /evolved from failed poem to potential song
The second night, without big stars,
did not go off as planned.
Bill Clinton’d been to several bars
and got quite out of hand.
He drooled on AOC’s blue dress
when they were introduced.
Come speech time, he was more a mess,
and then his brain unloosed.
“O, Chillary,” he sang, with twang,
“We must admit our sins.”
Was quickly walked off by a gang,
toward one of many bins.
John Kerry did an Irish dance
and AOC spitfired.
But all proceedings went askance
When Willie went unwired.
Oh, first I went and shot a quail.
And then I sent it in the mail.
And now I’m looking for some bail.
I guess that was an epic fail.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I did not realize
one could not shoot a bird that flies.
And for that I apologize.
In future times, I’ll be more wise.
O, it was not so much the killing,
but the mailing got you illing?
I find that assessment chilling.
Birds can fly air mail if willing.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I had to mail that beast
to a destination east.
It was his last wish at least
that he make the family feast.
But, if my actions still give pause,
arrest me and all my in-laws.
If one last banquet’s not good cause,
throw me in the eagle’s claws.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the ending of the mailed quail’s tale.